Glitter Wizards
by Scribe Teradia
Summary: Romilda Vane, star photographer for 'Glitter Wizards', has news for George Weasley.
1. Glitter Wizards

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do really inappropriate things with her characters. I own nothing but the crack, really.

**Author's Note:** This was written for the drabble/art challenge at the lj comm hpgeorgecentric, and was dedicated to lj's tania_sings. It was supposed to be a one-shot, and the original prompts were _all in a day's work_ and _glitter wizards_.

**Glitter Wizards**  
by Scribe Teradia

"Excuse me? You want me to do _what_?" The tall redheaded wizard stared at his guest.

"I'm fairly certain I didn't stutter, Mr. Weasley. Or perhaps you'll allow me to call you George?" Romilda Vane looked back at him with an impatient expression. Where had he heard her name before?

She was young, barely into her twenties, younger than Ginny, even, not bad to look at but not especially pretty, at first glance. He wouldn't have given her a second, ordinarily, but he'd discovered very quickly that she wasn't the type of woman who went unnoticed for long. There was a boldness to her brisk and businesslike demeanor, and that voice... that voice did wicked things to a man's libido.

George forced his mind back to the subject at hand. "I don't believe I've ever heard of a magazine called _Glitter Wizards_, Miss Vane."

"Romilda, if you please," she corrected, tucking a lock of black hair back behind her ear, dark eyes fixed on him with such intensity he felt practically naked before her. _That_ didn't help his libido, either, nor did the sensuous tilt to her mouth when she smiled. "I didn't expect you would, it's a fairly new publication. We ran an advert, a few months back, asking readers to submit requests, then took the suggestions and had a contest, sort of a reader's choice, you follow?"

He followed, he just wasn't sure he was willing to believe her. "And I won, is that what you're saying?"

"Second place, actually, but we decided to do the top five, since we had so very many responses." She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful and rather deliciously sexy before adding, "My editors thought I should be the one to issue the formal request."

It took George a minute to wrench his thoughts away from the gutter, because her lips and her voice had him thinking thoughts he hadn't entertained in... entirely too damn long. "Does it have to be nude?" He realized, as his voice cracked mid-sentence, that he sounded like Ron.

"I'm afraid I really must insist. It _is_ what our readers want to see, after all." Her gaze left his face, travelled down his body, and he found himself mesmerized by the curve of her lips once more as she smiled. "I can assure you that you're in very capable hands, George. I'm a professional, after all."

"All in a day's work, then?" He tried to make a joke of it, tried to make it funny, but his voice was cracking all over the place like a prepubescent schoolboy because all he could think about was her hands -- her elegantly manicured, long-fingered and slender hands -- in places that were quite unprofessional, indeed.

"Precisely. Shall we get started, then? I just need you to sign this waiver, here." She backed him into the counter, her hip connecting with his, and that was all it took to shove him over the edge and into madness.

One minute, they were standing upright against the counter, lips and tongues and teeth warring for dominance while hands battled with clothing in a desperate attempt to seek curves and lines beneath... and in the next he'd lifted her onto it and climbed up to join her, her fingers clutching at his hips as he shoved just enough fabric aside to bury himself in the liquid heat of her. She was soft and warm and wet and so deliciously tight he was almost reminded of his first time until she started taunting him with that wicked bedroom voice, saying the most vulgar and crude things he'd never heard a woman say before. He'd never had sex with such ferocity before, either, not with anyone (not that there had been a lot of anyones, but still), but by the time she got around to taking photographs he wasn't in any position to deny her anything at all.

*** * ***

A month later, the magazine arrived with the morning post, wrapped in plain brown paper, and George, who was busy arranging a new display, thought nothing of letting Ron deal with the mail. Not until he heard the almost girlish horrified shriek from the other side of the store, which had him running back to the counter, wand in hand.

It was beyond tacky. The title flashed and glittered in obscene neon colors that could be easily read from six feet away. Worse than that, his face was plastered across the cover wearing the most ridiculous dopey grin, and George's cheeks instantly burned with shame. "I can explain," he ventured weakly.

Ron's jaw worked for a moment, then he thrust the magazine toward his older brother. "I'm not sure I want to know. That rag's for _poufs_!"

The close-up made it that much worse, because now George could see the article titles, and he knew Ron was right: the thing was targeted at gay men.

**The End**


	2. Romilda's Revenge

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do really inappropriate things with her characters. I own nothing but the crack, really.

**Author's Note:** This is dedicated to slasher454, who after reading Glitter Wizards wanted more and suggested the motive behind Romilda's actions. I took her suggestion, twisted it and ran with it, and this ended up being not so much a sequel as a flip side to the first story.

**Romilda's Revenge**  
by Scribe Teradia

"Ohmigod, it's him! Romy, Romy, _look_!"

Romilda closed her eyes and heaved a sigh, then finally gave in to the demands of her overly-hyper best friend and turned to see who he was squealing over. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," she groaned, picking up her glass and draining it, then signalling for another. Then she gave Dennis her best withering glare. "Dennis, give me your wand, you've officially had too much to drink," she hissed at him.

Predictably, Dennis proceeded to pout, looking utterly adorable and a good six years younger than he actually was. "Whaaaat?" he whined. "Can I help it if I think he's gorgeous?"

"You do realize that's _George_ Weasley you're talking about, right?" Romilda turned again, appraising the ginger wizard at the bar who was currently oblivious to their scrutiny. He wasn't bad to look at, she supposed, even with the missing ear, but he was tall and rather stringy, and she wasn't shy about saying so to Dennis. "I prefer a little more bulk to my wizards. Look at him. I'd break him."

"Darling, I _am_ looking," Dennis retorted, his voice still full of admiration that Romilda simply didn't get. "Look at his _hands_, Romy."

Oh. Romilda dropped her gaze to George's hands, and saw immediately what Dennis was talking about. Long, slender fingers, so slender that his knuckles were rather knobby, not attractive hands, really, but they were quite large, and she knew there'd be calluses on them, realized that George was a wizard who worked with his hands, and she suddenly saw him in an entirely new light. His robes did nothing whatsoever to show off his figure, beyond the line of his shoulders, which wasn't nearly as broad as she'd seen on his brothers but suggested there might be more than she'd originally suspected to this particular wizard.

She was speculating on the size of his shoes when she saw him turning, saw the group of wizards point in their direction, though she missed whatever it was they said. The alcohol in her system was making her light-headed, and she heard George's voice but couldn't quite make out the words. Dennis, however, went utterly still beside her, and she tore her gaze from the ginger wizard to look at her best friend only to see tears welling up in his big blue eyes. "Dennis?"

"Let's get out of here," Dennis whispered, sniffling and swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Please, Romy?"

Digging into her pocket for the necessary coin to pay their bill, Romilda took Dennis by the elbow and walked him out, her jaw tight with anger. After she'd Apparated them both to her flat and had him settled on her sofa she asked, "What was that about?"

Tears spilling down his cheeks, Dennis told her, and it took every ounce of willpower Romilda had not to go back to that bar and give those wizards what-for. She'd never heard anything so hurtful, so blatantly homophobic, and honestly would have expected better of George, given his older brother Charlie's proclivities (and wasn't _that_ a shame, too, because Charlie Weasley was one of the sexiest wizards she'd ever seen, and that was saying a lot). Dennis was clingy and in need of her shoulder to cry on, however, so she reined in her temper and started plotting revenge, instead.

When they'd been at school, Romilda's friends had often teased that she'd been mis-Sorted, her schemes and cunning more fitting for Slytherin than the Gryffindor she'd ended up being. She allowed the talk, but she knew it hadn't been a mistake, because it took courage to do some of what she'd done after graduation, particularly this newest venture with Dennis and two of their other friends. Glitter Wizards had proven a rousing success, in spite of its detractors, and if Romilda Vane wasn't exactly a household name the way Rita Skeeter had been, she certainly had her fans among a certain class of wizard.

By the time Dennis had finally finished sobbing into her favorite sweater, Romilda was smiling, and he sniffled and looked up at her only to go round-eyed at her expression. "You're smiling," he observed, with the wary tone of voice she was accustomed to hearing when her friends knew she was plotting something.

"Dennis, how would you like to see a feature spread for the magazine featuring George Weasley?" Romilda inquired, her voice deceptively sweet.

His expression crumpled, and he shook his head. "Romy, don't tease, he'll never agree to it," he said, his expression more morose than she'd ever seen it.

"Want to bet?" He had a point, in that George would never agree to such a thing if he knew what sort of publication it was, but she was betting that he'd never heard of _Glitter Wizards_, and certainly wouldn't remember who _she_ was. She was under no illusions whatsoever that she was at all memorable, though she knew how to make an impression when it mattered.

Dennis was still looking wary, but he'd perked up a bit at her tone. "Do you really think you can get him? I know I'm not the only one who has a crush on him, and if you could get enough photos for a cover plus the feature..." His voice trailed off, and she presumed he was fantasizing about the possibility of nude photos of George Weasley.

Romilda's smile sharpened. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

*** * ***

Another reason Romilda's school friends had insisted she'd been Sorted wrong was her prowess with Potions. Nearly all of her Gryffindor friends lacked the proper concentration and focus necessary for brewing anything more complicated than a Shrinking Solution, but she discovered in herself a natural talent that came in handy when she needed something that wasn't available in the standard apothecary. She was particularly interested in the many varieties of love and lust potions, for more than just the obvious reasons.

Most of Hogwarts had known about Romilda's ill-fated attempts to slip Harry Potter some sort of love potion, as a fourth-year. Rumors had run rampant throughout the school when Ronald Weasley ended up poisoned after a run-in with potion-laced chocolates, and there were more than a few students who had eyed her with suspicion, thinking she'd added the poison in a misplaced effort to exact some revenge, or some twisted Romeo and Juliet scheme, or any number of other reasons. The gossip chain had been rather creative for weeks, and had further secured Romilda's reputation as having been improperly Sorted. It had occasionally proved useful, that reputation, as few of her peers dared to cross her for fear of similar retribution, but in truth only two good things had come of that heartfelt crush on the Boy Who Lived. The only one of those that she cared to think about on a regular basis was her skill in Potions; nearly five years later, and part of her heart was still mourning Colin, but then she suspected she always would, in some fashion. First loves, and all that.

In her seventh year, an offhanded comment by the new Muggle-born Potions teacher about the correlary between Potions and the Muggle science of chemistry had Romilda scouring the library at Hogwarts for everything she could find on the subject. There was depressingly little to be had at school, but after calling in a few favors and doing some outside research of her own, she'd gathered enough information to do her final NEWT thesis on it. She could easily have pursued a promising career as a Potions Mistress, but she'd already had an alternative line of work planned out, along with Dennis and two other friends who were more versed in the business aspects of what she'd proposed. Still, she'd kept up on the latest Potions research, and occasionally made a contribution of her own, though most of her independent work was strictly secret.

The lust potion she planned for George Weasley was something she'd developed entirely on her own, and had taken her the latter half of her seventh year. Incorporating such Muggle ideas as pheromones into a tried-and-true lust potion had proved rather disastrous, and Romilda had been forced to start completely from scratch. The end result was time-consuming, extremely difficult, and included no less than three rare and expensive ingredients, and of the handful of people who were aware of the potion's existence, none of them knew the degree to which she could personalize it. It was one thing to develop an elixir to cloud the mind with a fog of lust, and another entirely to key that potion specifically for a single person. She'd used it exactly four times, and knew there was no chance for failure, provided she could procure the necessary elements.

Two months to the day after the episode in the bar, Romilda entered Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, camera in hand, smile on her lips, and the potion liberally applied to the pulse points of her skin like a perfume. By the time she'd finished with George, she'd talked him into signing the waiver and shot two film rolls full of tantalizingly nude photographs. She'd also learned that her observation about his hands held true in every sense, and so did the old adage about the size of a man's feet indicating the size of something else. He was still rather stringier than her usual preference, but on the whole the encounter left her quite satisfied, indeed.

She just wished she could see his face when his complimentary copy of _Glitter Wizards_ arrived in the post.

**The End**


	3. George's Payback

**Disclaimer:** I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do really inappropriate things with her characters. I own nothing but the crack, really.

**Author's Note:** This is the final installment of what was supposed to be a one-shot and turned into a series. It's dedicated to SeraphimeRising, because she can relate to this problem, and she knows what I'm talking about.

**George's Payback**  
by Scribe Teradia

He was going to let it go.

Never mind that she'd gotten one over on him, it was over and done and he was willing to leave it at that, he really was.

Except...

Except, for one, that the cursed magazine wouldn't leave him alone. He'd thrown it in the wastebasket at the shop half a dozen times, and yet, somehow, when he least expected it, there it was again. When he mentioned to Ron that the damn thing was following him, Ron had looked at him funny and asked if he was feeling all right. In desperation, he took it up to the flat and tossed it into the fireplace, only to have his own dopey grin looking up at him from the coffee table the next morning. It was madness. Finally, Hermione suggested that there might be some sort of charm on it that would be broken if he read the thing, and so, steeling himself against the horrors he knew lay within, he gave it a go.

That was when he discovered the second thing, in the form of a picture two pages in, under the staff credits. The blond, blue-eyed, cherub-faced editor-in-chief was someone he very vaguely recollected, in the hazy sort of way that suggested he'd been drinking at the time he saw the man. He tried to recall the thread of whatever conversation had been taking place at the time, but couldn't quite bring it to mind. They'd been talking about Charlie, he thought, making cracks about his fling with his most recent boyfriend... Oh. George wasn't entirely sure what it was he'd said, but he remembered clearly the hurt look on the blond's face, and the way his dark-haired companion had hustled him out of the bar shortly afterward. A dark-haired companion who, in retrospect, looked an awful lot like Romilda.

The final straw was when Charlie tumbled in through the Floo, several days later, looking embarrassed and horrified and slightly ill, a copy of the dreaded magazine in hand. It was Charlie who reminded him where he'd heard the name before: Romilda Vane was the girl who'd tried to slip Harry a love potion in his sixth year, the same love potion that got their brother Ron inadvertantly poisoned. Love potions. That was when everything clicked, and George realized he'd been suckered, he'd been duped, he'd been taken for a ride... in more than one sense of the word.

He had to give the little minx credit, he'd certainly never seen it coming, but he'd be damned if he was just going to roll over and let her walk all over him. Payback was in order, and not just any kind of payback...

*** * ***

"I think he's finally cracked," Ron bemoaned to Harry and Hermione, several months later when the Trio gathered for drinks at the Leaky.

"You're just now noticing this, Ron?" Hermione couldn't keep a straight face as she said it, exchanging glances with Harry.

"She's right, mate, George has never been what one would call stable," Harry agreed.

"No, I mean he's _really_ gone off the deep end on this one," Ron insisted, draining his glass and gesturing for Hannah to bring him another.

"I rather thought the singing dildo telegram was a bit much," Hermione offered with a snicker.

"Don't forget the hypersexed rabbits," Harry supplied, grinning. He turned back to Ron, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, and asked, "Well, come on, then, what is it this time?"

Ron groaned, covering his face with his hands, and mumbled something inarticulate.

"What was that?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to make out what he'd said. "Don't mumble, Ron, it's hard enough to hear in here as it is."

"I said he asked her on a bloody date!" Ron moaned, letting go of his head in order to smack it on the table.

Hermione leaped to stop him, while Harry looked confused. "What's so bad about that?"

"Are you seriously going to ask me that?" Ron left off smacking his head on the table in order to stare wide-eyed at his best mate. His voice was a bit shrill with desperation by this point. "_Think_, mate! It's Romilda bloody Vane! Nothing good can possibly come of this!"

"He may have a point, Harry," Hermione agreed. "Remember when she sent you those chocolates?" Ron moaned miserably, and she patted his back. "Sorry, Ron."

"Yeah, but that was years ago, and it really _wasn't_ her fault that Ron was poisoned, that was Malfoy, remember?" Harry pointed out.

"Do I have to?" asked Ron.

"Ron, what's _really_ bothering you about the idea of George and Romilda together?" Hermione interrupted, guessing that there was something else at the source of Ron's misery.

There was a pause, as Ron drained his glass again, and then he looked between them blearily. "George thought it'd be funny to get me a subscription to _Glitter Wizards_, and now half of wizarding London thinks I'm a pouf!"

Harry and Hermione looked at him, then looked at each other, and burst out laughing, while Ron glared at the both of them.

*** * ***

Early morning sunlight sifted into the flat through a crack in the curtains where they hadn't been pulled closed all the way, and inconveniently fell across George's right eye. He wrinkled his nose, twice, but it did nothing to dislodge the uncomfortable beam of light, and finally he had to surrender to the fact that he was awake, cracking both eyes open. His body felt oddly sluggish, for some reason, and his entire left side had fallen asleep and was pinned beneath... Oh. Right. Romilda.

George attempted to extricate his arm from beneath the dark-haired witch, with no success whatsoever, because the movement prompted her to shift closer to him, her head turning where it rested on his shoulder until she was facing him. He forgot that he'd been trying to get out from under her, too busy admiring the beauty that he'd come to appreciate over the last several months. It was an understated prettiness, but certainly not the sort of thing one took for granted, especially when combined with her personality. She was crafty and witty and snarky and cunning and surprisingly funny when she wanted to be. Her loyalty to her friends was unwavering, and she was bold and absolutely fearless... It was at this point that George realized he was in all kinds of trouble, because he'd fallen for her.

He couldn't exactly pinpoint exactly when it had happened, either. Sometime over the course of the last few months, between the back-and-forth pranking and the almost random bouts of casual sex, he'd developed feelings for Romilda, and it scared the bloody daylights out of him. Not least because he was fairly certain she didn't feel the same about him. Why would she? She was young and smart and beautiful and going places, while he hadn't even been a whole person since Fred died. George sighed, and attempted once more to free his arm.

"Don't go yet." Her voice was sleepy and sultry, and suddenly the rest of him was awake.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He eased out from beneath her, flexing his arm a bit to get the blood flowing through it again.

"You were thrashing about like a trapped hippogriff, you didn't expect me to sleep through that, did you?"

"I was hoping."

"You're leaving already?"

George thought he heard a note of disappointment in her voice, but told himself he must have been imagining it. "I need to go open the shop."

It was a flimsy excuse, and he should have known she'd call him on it. "Ron can do it." She sat up, the sheet slipping away to leave her chest bare, and he found himself staring in spite of the fact that he was already so intimately familiar with those curves he could map them from memory. She slid closer, reaching up to catch hold of his chin and turn his head so that he was looking at her. "Are you ashamed of me?"

The question was the last one he expected her to ask, and he was caught so off guard that his reply was completely genuine as he uttered a surprised, "What?"

"It's not a difficult question, George," she retorted, letting go of him and pulling the sheet up, covering the lovely twin distractions. "A simple yes or no will do."

"What makes you think I'm ashamed of you?" he asked, stalling for time as he tried to figure out her logic. It was ridiculously futile, he was sure, because Romilda's logic had a way of twisting and turning things until they only really made sense to her; he'd been trying to work out the key to that puzzle for months, and it always eluded him.

"You don't let me visit you at work," she began, ticking items off on her fingers as she spoke. "You won't introduce me to your family, if I pass you on the street you barely acknowledge me or else pretend you haven't noticed me at all. I see you roughly twice a week, usually in dimly-lit, out-of-the-way places, and we always come to my place, never yours, so that you can crawl out of bed and vanish come daybreak. What else am I supposed to think?"

He realized he was staring at her with his mouth wide open and managed to shake himself out of it. "I don't ignore you on the street," he protested weakly.

"Bollocks. You did it just yesterday. Stop changing the subject."

"I didn't know you were serious about any of this," he finally admitted, looking away from her, down at the floor.

"Right, because I'm in the habit of tumbling into bed at random with just any man who catches my fancy." Her voice was dry, sharp with sarcasm, with the heat of temper behind it.

Since he'd already stuck his foot in his mouth, George figured he might as well see how deep he could dig his own grave before she finally shoved him into it headfirst. "Aren't you?" he whipcracked back.

He heard the sharp gasp of her indrawn breath and realized that he'd crossed a line. This was more than just taking potshots at each other, which was its own form of foreplay, he'd lashed out at her with a viciousness he wouldn't have thought himself capable of even thirty seconds ago. "Touche," she finally said. Her voice was surprisingly steady, but he heard the faint tremble in it, and turned to look at her.

It was the unshed tears in the corners of her eyes that did him in. "I'm sorry. That was low, even for me." He reached for her, trying to pull her into his arms, but she resisted, pushing him away.

"No, you were spot on, George. Congratulations, for hitting your mark. Does it make you feel better?"

George sighed, turning away from her and reaching down to pick his trousers up off the floor. "I'm not ashamed of you."

It was too little, too late, or at least he thought it was until she twined her arms around him and pressed up against his back. "There hasn't been anyone else, not since that first time, when I took the photos."

This admission stunned him, and he froze where he sat. He ran through and rejected at least a dozen responses, and finally settled for maintaining the honesty that had gotten him into so much trouble in the first place. "Why?" he asked. "Why me?"

"Why _not_ you?" she countered, her breath hot on his ear. "Aside from the very obvious physical attraction, I happen to like being around you, spending time with you. And you make me laugh."

"I run a joke shop, Romilda, making people laugh isn't exactly all that hard."

"It's harder than you might think." She pulled him backward, and he flailed briefly as they tussled for a moment; the end result was him lying prone once more on the bed while she straddled him, her hands running down his chest. "I like you, George. I think I might even love you, if you'd stick around long enough to let me."

George was pleasantly distracted by the sight of her above him, and the way her hands were running over him, but then her words processed and he blinked at her. "What did you just say?"

Romilda rolled her eyes, her hands settling on his chest so that she could raise herself up just enough to shift and roll her hips and settle around him, which effectively cut off any further protesting on his part. She leaned over, her breasts pressed against his chest, and purred into his ear, "I said I love you, George."

"That's what I thought," he said, catching hold of her shoulders and holding her still so that he could kiss her properly. Then she rolled her hips again, and his own hips lifted in response, drawing a moan from each of them. He tightened his arms around her and rolled them over, then growled against her lips, "It just so happens I think I love you, too." At which point he proceeded to show her just how much, an undertaking that ensured he was definitely going to have to let Ron worry about opening the shop.

**The End**


End file.
